


Master of Waiting

by Raicho



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Daryl, Bottoming from the Top, Dirty Talk, Feminine Terms, Grinding, Horny Daryl, Lap Sex, Licking, M/M, Needy Daryl, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Rick, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s riding Rick’s dick like a bucking bronco at the rodeo, and it’s the best ride of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master of Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an AU sometime between S5/S6 where Daryl lives with the Grimes. Let's just pretend Judith is over at Carol's place and Carl is shut in some closet with Enid... And our officer and archer get some private alone time after Rick gets home from patrol.
> 
> Unbeta'd

            Ever since they settled in Alexandria, Daryl’s been on edge. He’s been unwillingly turned from hunter to housecat. In this town there was an abundance of boredom, and the archer apparently won the lottery.

            He’s been cooped up all day; roaming the house like a tiger pacing inside its cage.

            There’s a tingle beneath his skin—pent up energy that he can’t release just yet. The silence is deafening and the lack of adrenaline threatens to drown him. He’s a panther in his own right, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

            But he waits.

            There’s a click as the front door opens and the familiar scent of sweat and gunpowder comes waltzing through the entry way, and he’s on his feet in an instant, scrambling to greet the cause of disturbance. He’s buzzing with anticipation as he makes his way to the foyer—he already knows what to expect; it’s become a daily ritual by now. The archer’s already sweating from the sweltering Georgia heat, but he’s an inferno of want and need—his body feels like molten lava, and he’s craving another’s touch to help cool him down.

            Daryl’s eyes are sharp and hooded as he rounds the corner to see a man standing clad in police uniform, “Rick,” his words are filled with gravel and desperation, “I’ve been waitin’ fer ya…”

            Sky blue eyes turn their gaze to look him over as he stalks closer to his intended target. The gaze is intense and intimate, and there’s an unspoken promise conveyed as they wander over the expanse of his solid frame. There’s a hunger in those eyes—a type of starvation you only see a man reach after he’s spent too long in the wastelands.

            Daryl hooks his bare arms around Rick’s neck and leans in close to slowly beg into the shell of the officer’s ear, “I need ya, Rick…”

            There’s a shiver beneath the crook of his elbow, causing Daryl to suck in his bottom lip with giddy suspense. He feels himself growing hard, so he leans in closer to grind his building erection against the officer’s sculpted thigh. Rick hums with appreciation, and his hands lazily roam down to squeeze at Daryl’s waist; his brows raise with amusement as he recognizes the archer’s pants are already unzipped and hanging loosely below the line of his thin hips.

            Rick licks his lips. He’s starving. Thirsty.

            He needs his archer to satisfy and quench his urges.

            “You been waitin’ long?” Rick’s voice is like soft wind in the mountains—its roll is slow, but holds beauty and power all the same.

            “All damn day.”

            The officer grins at Daryl’s admission.

            “Rick… C’mon.” The archer is losing patience; he’s beginning to burst at the seams, and his actions are beginning to take on an edge of distress.

            Without another word, the officer lifts the younger man to pull him in close against his chest, allowing for Daryl to hide his face in the joint of Rick’s neck and greedily lick at the salty flavor his of flesh. The archer’s legs snake around Rick’s waist as they move into the living room together; his hold is tight and unrelenting.

            Rick finds a seat on the cushioned furniture, and immediately Daryl’s on his knees, spreading his legs accommodatingly wide. He’s lifting himself up and down, rocking his pelvis in search of friction, and it’s just enough to give off the appearance of a sloppy lap dance. Rick whips a hand around too grope at the archer’s ass—his touch ice-cold—before he pulls away to give the rounded cheek a loud slap.

            Daryl’s got a fever now, and he’s burning up more and more with each passing second. When they lean into each other, it feels like a cool breeze against his sensitive skin. Their lips collide in a hurried storm of teeth and tongue; their breaths caught somewhere in the back of their throats as they choke on the taste of one another, and it feels like Daryl’s chugging ice water. Daryl’s cooling down, but it feels like he’s still almost burning—and his fingers ghost through sweat-damp curls as he dives further into the chill of their kiss.

            The archer’s legs are quivering, and his cock—tucked away and hidden—is hard and aching, fervently asking for some semblance of liberation. He’s rubbing himself against the officer again—or at least he’s trying too; his hips buck upward into the empty space between their bodies, and he’s praying that Rick gets the memo.

            “Rick…” Daryl’s voice is a gasp, a shy whisper of sorts; like a sinner in church speaking to confession.

            The officer catches Daryl’s hips under the pressure of his calloused palms, stilling the archer’s vehement rhythm, “Tell me what you need, Daryl.”

            Daryl looks down and moves a hand to play with the buttons on Rick’s shirt; he focuses on the feeling of each one popping free beneath his fingertips, showing the spread of tanned muscle instead of the officer’s carnal stare.

            “I need y’ t’ give it to me…” He’s embarrassed, and it slips out as another breathless whisper, but he’s still fumbling to undo Rick’s pants all the same.

            Rick cocks his head to the side in a mocking gesture and smirks, “I can’t hear you.”

            Daryl can feel his face turn red and hot, and it feels like dragon’s breath against his cheeks, “I said I need y’ t’ wreck me, Rick.”

            There’s suddenly a primal look about Rick as he grips the archer’s hips to turn him around like a rag doll. Rick’s hands are all over him; peeling away each article of already unbuttoned clothing and leaving him stark naked in his lap. The archer can feel Rick’s interest through the officer’s lingering boxers, pressing solidly against the soft crevice of Daryl’s ass. He squirms in place, massaging himself against the growing bulge, and a soft whine escapes from between his lips.

            “How do you want this?” Rick’s breath tickles against the sensitive flesh below Daryl’s ear, causing the archer’s flesh to pebble in response.

The officer’s hands begin to stroke over both of Daryl’s knees, sliding up his thighs, and the archer has to brace himself against Rick’s chest; holding tight to either of the officer’s legs, “Want ya t’ give it t’ me as hard as ya can.”

            “I can do that.”

            It sounds like a tease, but Daryl is rewarded when the officer tucks a hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, releasing the beautiful sight of his hard cock in hand. Daryl’s mouth waters as he watches Rick glide a thumb over the slit to spread a few drops of precum, using the moisture to help rub over his shaft.

            “You already wet?”

            Daryl nods eagerly, already pleased with himself for thinking ahead and taking the time to stretch himself open—he had nothing else better to do with his free time.

            Rick bends forward to place a sloppy kiss at the nape of Daryl’s neck as he snakes a hand beneath the archer’s bottom to push a finger into his hole—already soaked and waiting to welcome Rick inside, “Love it when your pussy’s wet and hungry,” a second finger sinks inside without resistance, “You think about me all day?”

            He’s blushing, but Daryl nods again.

            A third finger is added.

            “Do you touch y’rself when you think about me all day?”

            “Jus’ t’ prep m’self.”

            “Good,” Rick’s fingers slip out, covered in warm lube, “That’s real good,” his voice is sweet as sugar.

            “I want you to remember our rule we decided on,” His slicked fingers run along the length of his shaft, allowing its red flesh to glisten beneath the wet sheen, “Who’s pussy is that?”

            Daryl sucks in a breath and braces himself as he feels the officer line himself up, “Yer’s,” there’s pressure building and he feels like he’s about to stutter, “Only yer’s.”

            “And who can touch that pussy?”

            There’s a burn as the blunt head of Rick’s cock breaches, but with it comes a brisk relief that floods through the archer’s limbs, “Only you.”

            Rick’s only response is to nod and nip at Daryl’s shoulder before pushing himself further inside.

            Daryl’s filling up, and he keeps sliding lower and lower until he feels the pressing of Rick’s wiry curls against his cheeks. There’s no time for him to adjust before Rick’s clutching either side of Daryl’s hips, pulling him up with a friction-laced tug. Daryl’s hands are braced around the officer’s neck, vying for purchase as Rick continues to pull and slam into him with as much force as a bull in rut.

            Daryl’s seeing stars and his head is gracelessly bobbing side to side. He’s pretty sure he’s drooling from his mouth that’s gaping wide open with filthy moans spilling from his throat, but he can’t find it within himself to give a fuck. He’s riding Rick’s dick like a bucking bronco at the rodeo, and it’s the best ride of his life. There’s a sweet spot inside his core that the officer’s managing to hit on nearly every thrust—the angle’s just right regardless of how fast or slow may be the pace—and Daryl’s flooded with ecstasy. He feels like he’s skipping through the fields of paradise with his cunt fully stuffed and his body palpitating with jubilation.

            He’s on the verge of spilling, but he’s got enough of his wits about him to know that would be against the rules, and so he sobs his attempted plea with a shaking voice, “Rick, I’m gonna…”

            “Hold it,” Rick commands with a clipped response as he buries himself deep all the way to the root, “I need you to hold it, Daryl.”

            Daryl’s whimpering, and there’s tears pooling in the corner of his squinted eyes, but he holds it. There’s cum threatening to spill from his cock—angry and discolored from delayed gratification—but he waits. Daryl’s learned to master the art of waiting.

            It’s like a bucket of ice is dumped over his head when Rick reaches a spit-slicked hand over to take hold of Daryl’s member; his touch like frost on glass, and the archer instantly melts into the feeling. Rick’s hand pumps the archer’s cock in tune with each of his savage thrusts, careful to cover root to tip with each roll of his wrist and slide of his palm. The symphonic sound of skin on skin sings through the air as both men rise and fall with each sliver of friction.

            “What’s the magic word?” Rick’s voice is husky and erotic in Daryl’s ear, and the archer’s fingers flex with animalistic desire.

            A moan rolls from Daryl’s tongue as he arches back to scrape his neck along the officer’s rough stubble, “Please, Rick.”

            “I need you t’ cum on my cock, Daryl.”

            There’s a venereal howl that escapes from Daryl’s throat as he shuts his eyes tightly closed and gasps through his release—a stream of white covering his naked stomach and gathering in the sunken dip of his belly. He’s putting everything he’s got into holding on; he’s clenching around the intruding length, and his hands are still wrapped around Rick’s neck like he’s the only anchor he’s got left in this dead world. There’s a wave of bliss that washes over him and he swears he can smell the color purple 'cause it feels so fucking good.

            He’s still blinded by phenomenal euphoria as he hears Rick grunt behind him, holding his waist and hips close and tight. There’s a rapid wave of hot seed that surges through his core, leaving Daryl feeling like melted ice under blazing sunshine. His limbs are weak and his vision is a lost cause as he relaxes his muscles and sinks into the warm body beneath him.

            There’s a moment of quiet where the only noise is the sound of synchronized panting, and Daryl wonders if Rick lost his senses, too. But the silence is broken when Rick takes the archer in his arms and lays them both on their sides, spooning behind Daryl and his scarred back. He’s held close in Rick’s arms as his marred skin is gently kissed inch by inch, and Daryl thinks for a second that this might be what heaven is like.

            There’s a peaceful sense of contentment that runs through Daryl’s mind as he lets himself drift into a state of unawareness, safely tucked beneath the only man he's ever trusted. He may not be the hunter he once prided himself as—stalking the woods like a wildcat in search of prey—but he wonders about the possibility of being the only man held in Rick’s arms every day. He could change for that.


End file.
